My love, where you sing your cries on an empire of your Hellish loneliness. How can the churches believe you? How can your smile ever be parted, from you?
I will bleed along with you, my love. Treasure yourself, for the funeral cannot be far off. I will kiss your hand, for as long as I can. Before it drops, like another bough from a tree, I will kiss your hand, holding up your arm.
You are the tree, grown sick. I believed that the years would carry us. Yet, I must carry this weight of your fall. No wings so deeply buried in the earth, can ever be lifted, without your leaving.
You have opened the gates, for your arrival. But, will God love you more than me? Will God ever believe in our world? How does His name escape me, though yours won’t?
You will become an angel, born from dust.
Modern Romanticism 